


Invective

by SolainRhyo



Category: Fallout 4, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Blended Transformers universes, Cannibalism, Despair, F/F, F/M, Human Sex, Post-Apocalyptic, Robot Sex, Slow Burn, TFP alternate universe, Transformers/Fallout crossover, cybertronian war ruined earth, grim setting, lil bit of cyberpunk, lots of death and war and gore, not much fluff to be found here, ruthlessness on all sides
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21315148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: The war between the Cybertronian factions decimated Earth, leaving humanity in turmoil. The war still rages and you've managed to carve out a niche in this grim new world scavenging whatever you can from anything you can - including dead mechs. While on the trail of a wounded one, you have an unwelcome revelation about yourself and the things you do, leading to a string of decisions you never thought you'd be willing to make.
Relationships: Dreadwing/Reader, Dreadwing/human, Human/Human, Transformer/Transformer, Transformers/Reader, Transformers/human - Relationship
Comments: 40
Kudos: 151





	1. A career in carrion

It’s one of _ them_.

You tug down your scarf as you stare at it. You’d suspected this was what you’d find based off the splotches of fluid you’d followed here, puddles of pale luminescent blue bright enough that they did a fair job of illuminating the passage. Enough so, in fact, that you were able to kill your flashlight, sliding it back into your belt as you walked, sticking close to the rough rock wall. Someone not so long ago had used this underground shaft as a bolt hole and you viewed evidence of their presumably brief habitation the deeper you progressed: empty soda cans clustered in a pile and the brassy gleam of scattered shell casings. Another five steps and you spied a long strip of cloth, stained black in more than one spot with what was more likely than not blood. It was safe to assume that whoever had gone to ground here had met a grim end.

The shaft abruptly widened into a sizable chamber, the bulk of it lost to darkness. You withdrew your flashlight again, thumbed it on and aimed it forward, the beam playing over the ground. More splotches. And there it was, the thing you knew you’d find, lying in a huge crumpled heap just beyond the reach of your light. You adjust your scarf now as you stare at it, pulling it off your face and breathing deep of air that is both dank and cold. You hesitate before raising the flashlight, debating the wisdom of having followed the trail as far as you have. You chose to operate on the whim of your curiosity, a dangerous indulgence in this day and age. Said curiosity abruptly makes your mind up for you, prompting you to lift the hand holding the light just enough that the creature you’ve tracked down here is illuminated.

_ Cybertronian. _ Lying toppled on its side facing you, a small pool of its own radiant blood underneath it. Its eyes are dark, an indicator of either death or unconsciousness, though you know if it were awake they would shine either red or blue. You have an inkling as to which faction it belongs too based solely on the symmetry of its head, but you circle around it cautiously anyway, playing the beam over a body that glints metallic blue and gold until you find what you are looking for. There’s the insignia, high up on the right side of its chest. You inhale deeply and silently. _ Decepticon. _

You should leave. There’s nothing stopping you save your damned curiosity and greed. You switch off the light as you stand where you are, considering your next action. If it’s dead, there’s nothing to stop you from salvaging what you need. Even if it is comatose you could theoretically proceed—your gauss rifle can take care of the protective shielding over the spark chamber and from there it’s a very simple matter to end its life—provided it remains unconscious. If it doesn’t...

There’s an easy way to determine whether it’s dead or close enough to dead for you to proceed. After lengthy deliberation you slide the rifle strap off your shoulder, bringing it around and checking to ensure that a cartridge is loaded. The rifle has its own flashlight, a tactical attachment fastened to the barrel which you thumb on, bathing the Cybertronian in a much wider and brighter cone of light. Your finger traces the curve of the trigger as you hesitate yet again. You hope it’s dead. You want it to be dead, because you’ve only ever carved the dead ones. You’ve never taken the life of one on your own, aren’t sure if you're ready to. _ I need what it has,_ you argue with yourself. Those you’d carved in the past had been dead for a while. This one is fresh, spark intact and even if that prize piece is damaged it’s still worth a great deal. As for the rest, the weapons and the energon, the optic sensors and the bio-lights and the cabling – you’ll take what you can carry and head back to the Merge as quickly as possible to recruit a crew to come back and finish the rest of the job.

What it boils down to, what has your finger tightening on the trigger, is that carving _this_ mech will let you live like a king for a very long time.

Its eyes flicker. You’ve waited too long. _ Fuck. _You back a step and then another, grip on the rifle tightening. You debate killing the light but you know it won’t matter – they can see in the dark, read heat signatures, read vitals, read all kinds of stats that are far beyond the capabilities of your fleshy eyeballs. Your finger is crooked taut against the trigger. You know from experience that if you hold it that way for too long it will start to tremble.

Light blossoms in its optics, starting as dual crimson pinpricks but slowly expanding outward. You wait, hardly breathing, as those eyes slowly flicker again and then begin to move. They focus on you immediately, standing directly in front of it as you are, narrowing somewhat as though it finds the intensity of your light painful. Despite yourself, you lower the rifle barrel just a tad.

“Human,” its voice scrapes out, accented with static. A male voice.

You say nothing. He moves, or at least try to. The effort is clearly an agonizing one and he hisses as he props himself up on one elbow. His eyes dart around the cavern before settling on you again. Energon drips from a scorched wound in his lower torso. Now that he’s online his bio-lights are active, glowing red lines across his shoulders, hips, and thighs. He’s a flier, you guess from his anatomy, eyeing what you assume are the horizontal and vertical stabilizers protruding from the backs of his legs and arms and again at his shoulders. You wonder if he can still fly or if the war has managed to clip his wings as it has so many of the other fliers.

As you are studying him, he studies you in return. Human, he’ll obviously note. Gender not immediately discernible due to the thick CQB vest and field pants you are wearing, both of which are just a bit too large. Your face is no longer obscured by the grey scarf and your hair is tucked away beneath a green jeep cap. He will (wisely) focus most on the weapon you carry: a gauss rifle, though his kind refers to them as coilguns. He’ll observe the short recon scope and the recoil compensating stock but what will have immediately captured his attention is the capacitor boosting coil, because it’s that modification in particular that makes this rifle as deadly to him as his weapons are to you.

“Insurgent?” he asks when he’s done giving you the once over. When you remain silent, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing even further. “Scavenger,” he deduces flatly.

In truth, you’d been a bit of both at one point. You are more the latter than the former, now, which does you no favors with either of the mech factions. War necessitates a great many unpleasant things.

“I prefer 'scrap reclaimer'_._” Your voice is even, to your credit. His eyes are mere slits now, because ‘scrap’ means two very different things to humans and Cybertronians.

“Scavenger,” he repeats, and there is such loathing in that one word. You allow yourself a mental shrug. You’re certain he has no moral high ground to stand upon because, well, he’s a Decepticon. Still, the hostility in that stare is enough that you find yourself preparing to step back. You check the movement.

“You have found an easy target,” he says after a moment. “I left a simple enough trail to follow, even for one of _ you__. _ I assume you finished the Autobot off first?”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You’d never even considered there could have been more than one. The energon you’d followed had belonged to both. _ Fucking idiot, _you berate yourself. He interprets the situation by the widening of your eyes. “Human,” he growls, struggling—and failing—to push himself into an upright position, “you may have just made a fatal mistake.”

He’s no longer your main concern. You turn, sweeping the cavern with the light from the rifle, hoping beyond hope that you’ll find nothing. Luck favors you – the only two living creatures of note are you and the Decepticon. There’s more than one entrance into this cave, you realize as your light plays over the walls, meaning that this place is far larger than you’d originally guessed. It isn't a mine as you'd first presumed. It had probably started out as a bunker concept, a shelter quickly hewn out of rock once the war began and likely abandoned shortly thereafter when everything went to shit.

And the Autobot is down here somewhere.

“Was it hurt?” you ask tersely.

“Yes.” There is a definite note of satisfaction in his answer.

“How badly?”

“Enough,” he replies, “that he should not prove much of a threat.”

“To me or to you?”

He doesn’t immediately reply. Your eyes, busy searching the shadows your light isn’t reaching, round back to him. He gestures to himself, to the energon still trickling in rivulets down his torso. “_You_ are the one capable of standing.”

The sound reaches the both of you at the same time, a screech that is definitely that of metal grating on stone. You whip around, rifle held at the ready, trigger finger starting to tremble just like you’d predicted it would. The sound is coming from one of the other tunnels spilling into this cave. You’ve got a choice to make now. You can turn tail and run and leave the two mechs at the mercy of each other. That’s the best choice, really, because instead of having one body to carve you’ll have two. There’s no guarantee they’ll kill each other, though–

“Run,” the Decepticon urges you, the abhorrence in his tone so thick it’s almost tangible. He has followed the path of your racing thoughts. “Run as your kind always does and return later for the spoils. Think of it, human! Two instead of one! Think of the wealth and prestige that will grant you!”

Wealth, _definitely_ yes. Prestige, not so much. A dead mech is just another body. When war has been waging as long as this one has, the novelty of death starts to wear off for all sides. He has a point, though, and that’s why you start edging backward, toward the tunnel you’d entered from. His red eyes track your movement as you go, mouth twisting into a bitter, hateful knot. You’ve been too slow because quite suddenly, across the cavern, you see the glow of _blue_ eyes.

There’s a maliciously exultant tone in the Decepticon’s voice as he whispers to you, “Too late now.”

And it _is_ too late, because the Autobot is aware of you. You jerk the rifle up, aiming at him through the scope, the beam of light disconcerting him momentarily and pinning him to the spot. He’s unfamiliar to you, green and yellow with a white face, his left leg hanging useless with an unnatural bend. Energon is smeared all over his form. His gaze flits from you to the Decepticon and back again and astonishingly it’s on you he focuses, taking one hitching step forward. He stops, staring at you with a confused frown. Abruptly that frown distorts, becoming a grimace of mingled pain and rage.

“You’re one of _ them!”_ he roars and within these stone confines it is deafening. _ “Where is he?” _

Your blood crystallizes in your veins. Too late you realize the one identifying factor on your person that would render him this hostile, the red band tied around your right thigh. He’s lunging for you and if he'd been uninjured he would have undoubtedly reached you by now. As it is, his fury clouds his judgment and he fails to compensate for his wounds, taking two steps forward before crashing to the ground. He heaves himself up and, unable to stand, settles for rapidly dragging himself across the cavern floor.

“Skinbag,” he snarls, uttering the favored derogatory term among Cybertronians for your kind. “Where was he taken?”

As he approaches the rifle’s grip slides in your grasp, sweaty as your palms so suddenly are. You manage to lift it anyway. A gauss rifle is ineffective when fired from the hip so you quickly move backward, giving yourself room, aligning your eye to the scope. It’s unfortunate that you’re shaking, because you’ve never actually had to kill one of them before and if you’re being entirely honest, you don’t _want _to. As you’ve been forced to acknowledge more than once, however, the reality you live in doesn’t care what you want. What it narrows down to is that it’s your life versus that of the rest of this ravaged world, so you take in a deep breath and you clamp your finger down on the trigger, holding it down to charge the shot. When the rifle fires it does so with its distinct clicking buzz which is amplified by the rock surrounding you. The shot takes the Autobot on the left side of the head, boring off a chunk of plating and the protoform beneath, sending up a spray of energon. He crumples, twitching for several seconds before falling still.

You are breathing entirely too quickly and loudly, which you only realize when you slowly lower the rifle and find that the Decepticon is watching you. You’d almost forgotten he was there, which makes you question your survival instinct in general. You’re also still shaking and the rifle is transmitting that fact by way of its wavering light. You know what he’s seeing as he looks at you: rapid heartbeat, lowered temperature, dilated pupils: all the telltale signs of panic and fear.

“You have never killed one of us before.” He says it as a statement, not a question.

“No.” You surprise yourself by answering, wondering why the admission tumbles so easily from your mouth.

“Willing to scavenge our bodies but not willing to strike the killing blow?”

Wordlessly you gesture to the body of the Autobot.

“You only fired because he gave you no other choice. You would have fled if you could have.”

No argument there.

“So tell me, human, why is it easier for you to carve us up than it is to end us?”

“Because,” you say, dismayed to find that your voice like the rest of you has a slight tremor, “I don’t have to look the corpses in the eye.”

He’s silent for the span of a few moments. Finally he nods. “I respect honesty,” he says, “even if it is coming from one of you.”

Great. You have his respect. You’re sure that will help you out in exactly zero ways. Rifle still cradled in your grasp, you approach the body of the Autobot. He’d fallen onto his side, which is good news because you can still get to the spark chamber, albeit with a bit more difficulty than if he was on his back. You’d blown one of his optics away but the other was still intact. Given the amount of energon painting his body from his previous injuries as well as what’s pouring from what remains of his face, you’re doubtful you’d be able to siphon enough to make it worth the effort. You’re carrying in your pack some of the implements you’ll need for harvesting: a dual plasma cutter/torch, rubber insulated gloves, and a small and incredibly powerful motorized saw. What you should do is get to work, provided of course the Decepticon is content to idly sit by as you cannibalize the corpse of one of his brethren despite the fact they were on opposing factions.

After several minutes spent locked in internal debate, you sigh. You can’t bring yourself to do it. You’re not sure why. You’ve harvested mechs before. You’ve carted gallons of energon and optic components and spools of cabling and yes, even sparks to miscellaneous buyers at the Merge. You’ve profited from ‘scrap reclamation’ a great deal and you’d intended to keep on doing so right up until this moment.

_ Fuck. _

“Ethical dilemma, human?”

You’ve had about enough of this Decepticon. You whirl on him, voice rising. “Pretty fucking rich, all these things you’re accusing me of, when I know for a fact what Shockwave and his corps of demented scientists do when they get their hands on a human.”

He endures your glare stone-faced before tipping his head forward, conceding your point. “Not all who fight for the Decepticon cause condone what Shockwave has done.”

“You don’t condone it, but you keep fighting for the same reasons as he does. Same fucking difference, don’t you think?”

Now he’s glaring at you, which would be incredibly intimidating if not for the fact that he can only support himself with one arm and has a gradually widening pool of energon beneath him. You can’t be sure, but you think that maybe it’s that sight that pushes you to make a questionable and frankly ludicrous decision.

“I have a plasma torch,” you tell him slowly. “Could you cauterize your wounds with it?”

His glare dissolves abruptly into a very perplexed frown. “It is possible.” he says after a lengthy silence.

“If I give it to you, do I have your word you won’t attack me?”

Another drawn out silence as he considers you. “You would trust the word of a Decepticon?”

He has a very valid point. “No,” you admit. You pat the barrel of your rifle. “But I’m not entirely helpless.”

His eyes drop to your weapon before they return to your face. “You have my word, human.”

_ What the actual fuck am I doing? _Certain parts of your inner self (responsible for logic, reason, self-preservation) are screaming at the other parts (responsible for your current acts of what-the-fuckery) and the resulting stentorian cacophony has you clenching your teeth. It’s not enough to keep you from transferring your rifle to one hand, sliding your pack off your shoulders and digging through it for the plasma torch. Once you have it in hand you approach the Decepticon, stopping one of his arm's lengths away and holding it out. It’s only then you realize that it’s so small that there’s no way he can wield it himself. He reaches this conclusion at the same time you do, looking at you with eyebrow plates raised.

“I’ll have to do it.” you say with extreme reluctance.

“How can I trust you not to–”

“You could crush me with one hand,” you interrupt. _ And probably will. _“If you’ll take the word of a skinbag, I’ll give it to you: I won’t make things worse. Intentionally.”

That last bit earns you a sharp look, but he relents, gesturing to the hole in his torso. “I do not think your tool will be able to mend this.”

“No,” you muse aloud, eyeing it, “but we might be able to patch it up, temporarily. That is, if you’re not averse to…” you trail off, glancing back over your shoulder meaningfully.

If his expression is anything to go off of, he’s not a big fan of what you’re proposing. Still, he nods. “So be it.”

So you return to the Autobot corpse, donning your protective goggles and folding the plasma tool into the cutter position. You have to turn back around to eyeball the size of the Decepticon’s wound before you get to work on the unmarred plating of the Autobot’s left thigh. It’s slow work – the cutter is powerful but small. As you slice out a roughly rectangular panel, the Decepticon speaks.

“Who was he referring to?” When you pause in your task and lift your head to look at him blankly through the dark lenses of your goggles, he elaborates with a thrust of his chin at the Autobot. “He said you had taken someone.”

You start cutting again, taking your time to respond because the answer is one you are deeply conflicted over. “An Autobot,” you finally reply. “We have their medic.”

** .x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A recent rewatch of TF:P had me thinking all kinds of things about Dreadwing and as a friend pointed out, I apparently have a type because, well, [Ultra Magnus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13436568/chapters/30794697).
> 
> I've shamelessly appropriated Fallout's version of [Gauss rifle](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DeiDjLGX0AAQ6dp.jpg) for my own use in this because of all the shooters I've played, it's still my favorite gun. [Also, it makes a neat noise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbDKsVJbVqw). 
> 
> Thank you to **SerendipitousSong** for reading it over, and thank you everyone who took the time to read this.


	2. Makeshift surgeon

Your ultimate goal in this burning wreckage of a world is to be able to exist on your own. Reliance on others never seems to end well, not when a seemingly never-ending war has made survival the most important part of living. You have been working toward that goal, slowly and with determination, for a very long time. You’ve had to do a lot of things you didn’t want to do: fight alongside Autobots and later, when they became a little less concerned with the collateral damage their war was having, fighting against them. You couldn’t handle it. You were a shit soldier, but then again so was most everyone else. You slid downward through the unorganized ranks of a tatterdemalion resistance army to hang off the lowest rung, to take the job nobody else wanted. ‘Scavenger’ was your official-unofficial title, but everyone else called you what you really were: a carrion crawler. After battles (and there were many), you’d search every single body littering the battlefield, taking what was necessary and even what wasn’t. At first you ‘crawled’ over human bodies, stripping them clean of ammo and guns and knives and smokes and whatever shitty good luck charms they had carried to avoid ending up exactly where they had. Later, when it became apparent that Cybertronians housed within them all manner of useful things, it opened up possibilities for you. Carrion crawling became a tad more glorified and the things you started bringing back with you—jerrycans full of energon, spools of cabling, bundles of bio-lights—well, people really wanted those. Wanted them enough to pay obscene amounts and even better, give you hazard pay to make it worth your while. So you made a career switch—you deserted the resistance like the traitorous piece of shit you are, and went right into scavenging as a full time occupation.

You were good at it. You had to be. Some of the ballsier, brasher scavengers hunted their prey, liking the risk, liking the rush. You are of a more cautious nature and you carved out your niche by planning ahead, acting on logic and reason rather than impulse. Cybertronian corpses were not hard to find given the state of things, though it was a race to get to them first. You’d stake out popular skirmish points, hiding in the rubble of abandoned buildings or dense underbrush, watching as the rival factions of bots beat the ever-loving fuck out of each other and then, when the victors were gone, you’d slink out into the midst of the carnage to begin the harvest. You weren’t the only one utilizing this tactic and as such, had to learn to share. Even if you couldn’t get to the prize components—sparks, optics, T-cogs—there was more than enough in a singular Cybertronian corpse to bring in a lot of cash. It didn’t take you long to build up a small fortune, and once you had, you spent nearly all of it on a weapon. Gauss rifles were expensive for a reason, being one of the only weapons available to humans that could actually do serious harm to a bot. You’d spent even more to outfit it with modifications, enhancing its power output and improving ammunition consumption. You’d told yourself you could use it to hunt bots, but the truth was, you only wanted it as a deterrent. You never wanted to kill bots. You never wanted to kill anybody. You’d already tried that during your time as a soldier, and you’d failed miserably at it. 

Scavenging as a career was not without its risks. Rival scavengers were just as prone to kill you as they were your prey, which meant that you learned early on to tread very carefully. Sometimes you formed tenuous truces in which you and the other party (or parties) would agree to scavenge a certain amount of bots before parting and going your own separate ways. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t—you’re still bitter about having to part with a veritable dragon’s hoard of pristine sparks when a ‘partner’ leveled their shotgun barrel at you almost three years ago. There are other incentives for partnering up, the main one for you being that the TLF—the Terran Liberation Front—has a dim view of deserters, which you very much are. The resistance is large and prolific but not very good at what they do, which makes sense considering they are trying to fight off an invading force of giant living metal titans and are outgunned on a massive scale. You’ve narrowly escaped their grasp once before and you know it’s only a matter of time before they find you again, so you made the choice to seek out protection by hiding among the many faceless others that comprise the broken society of the world. 

Mankind, for the most part, has banded together because of this war. This is especially true outside the cities, where the act of simply existing is rife with hazards. There are hundreds of smaller factions and several large, established ones, such as the Minutemen that dwell in the swamps to the east and the secretive members of the Institute, holed up in a bunker somewhere to the south. In the north resides the Brotherhood of Steel, consisting of former military men, disciplined and skilled and in possession of a particular technology that makes them a significant threat to all Cybertronians: armored infantry combat technology (commonly referred to as ‘power armor’) that renders any wearer a walking fortress. You’ve had your eye on the Brotherhood for a while now, fortified and formidable as they are, but gaining entry will be difficult as they are an elite bunch and not inclined to take in those that have nothing to offer their cause. Unable to figure out a way over that significant hurdle, you’d set your sights a little lower, petitioning to join a group central to the Merge, a group of opportunistic mercenaries turned traders that are always on the lookout with someone that has the potential to make them more money, a category you fortunately fell into. That’s how you came to be a part of the Mercers, whose insignia is a simple red band tied around the thigh, who were prepared to offer you food and housing in exchange for your carrion crawler skills. 

That’s how you came to be part of a group that managed to capture an Autobot medic for reasons you are not at all comfortable with.

That’s how you came to be here, in a cave, welding a piece of living metal you’d taken from one dead bot onto another one.

**.x.**

The Decepticon had not spoken since asking about the medic, for which you are grateful. Instead he observed you with an intensity that raised the skin on your arms, that had your heart thudding at a rather unsteady pace. He had obeyed, albeit with narrowed eyes, when you’d approached and gestured for him to lie down flat so that you had access to his wound. He’d endured the indignity of you attempting to climb onto the equivalent of his chest, had boosted you ungently with one hand when you faltered. Now you’re kneeling to the left of the wound in his lower torso, doing your best to patch him up and entirely aware that you’re likely going to make a mess out of it. You're working in the bright illumination of your gauss rifle's flashlight attachment, positioned on the ground facing you both, but its radius is limited. These are less than ideal conditions for what you are about to do, but it's not like you have a choice. You brought up the idea, and now you need to follow through. He makes no sound as your plasma torch fuses the part you’d taken from the Autobot to his own skin, though you noticed from the corner of one eye that his leg jerked twice, though only slightly. You take a short break, rolling your neck and shoulders, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your free hand. The amount of heat the torch throws off is remarkable considering it is fairly compact. All the while you attempt to ignore those thinned crimson eyes focused on you, and you are almost successful until he chooses to speak.

“Which medic?” 

You knew the question was coming. You hesitate in your reply. There’s no love lost between Autobot and Decepticon but still… 

“It cannot be Pharma. He died stellar cycles ago, Ambulon as well.” A pause as he thinks. “Ratchet?”

You shake your head. He makes an expectant noise, arching a brow plate, and you say slowly, “Sawbones.”

He frowns in confusion. You explain, “That’s what we call him. I don’t know what name he goes by among your kind.”

“Describe him.”

You bristle a little at the order, feel a scowl pulling at the corners of your mouth. He marks it and the two of you glare at each other for the span of a few seconds before you reluctantly speak. “Thin. Lean. Not a lot of color, just white and gray. Not a flier, or at least I don’t think so. Never seen his alt mode.” The Decepticon shows no sign of recognition and so you elaborate further. “He fought in Ultra Magnus’ brigade during the fight at New Malta.”

“Ah.” The Decepticon says, and that one word tells you he knows all about that particular battle. “I was not there, but I know of who you speak. Suture.”

_Suture._ It’s a word that brings to mind the act of mending, which is pretty much the opposite of what you think when it comes to the medic in question. In your opinion, his human sobriquet suits him far better. Thinking the conversation is over, you assume the stance you need to continue your work and are on the verge of thumbing the torch back on when your patient speaks again. 

“You were at that battle.”

You swallow against a wash of angry memories that are battering at the door. “I was.” 

“Not quite the victory your kind had hoped for, was it?”

It’s a question meant to needle you, and it works. What had happened at New Malta had been a complete and utter shitshow, because that was the day the Autobot Primes decided that they needed to focus a little less on protecting their admittedly vulnerable human allies and focus more on doing whatever they needed to do in order to secure a victory—including sacrificing dozens of human platoons by turning them into unwitting and under-equipped shock troops. That particular battle had soured the alliance between the TLF and the Autobots, and had soured your outlook on the whole fucking thing entirely. 

You shouldn’t bother replying to his goading but you do, your voice clipped and even. “No, it wasn’t.”

“What the Autobots did—”

You’re shaking your head. “Doesn’t matter. It happened. It’s over.”

“Did you take part in the battle?”

“Yes.”

“In what capacity?”

“What does it matter?” you snap, thumbing the torch on. “Hold still,” you direct him unnecessarily, and derive a small amount of satisfaction in seeing his expression darken. You return to your task, fusing the patch into place, and it’s a long while later before you’re finished. Once the final seam is complete you lean back with a sigh, killing the torch and shoving your goggles high onto your forehead.

“It’ll do.” you say after inspecting your handiwork. You get to your feet, step carefully across the width of him, and slide down his side. As your feet hit the ground he sits up, lifting one finger to prod at the patch. 

“Your work is clean,” he says grudgingly.

You don’t bother replying, instead taking several step backward until you can see his entire body. He still looks bad, which you expected, because he’d bled out a great deal before you’d even found him. What you’ve just done is the equivalent of slapping a band-aid on a gunshot wound and you’re wondering why you even decided to bother. You take another step back, let your eyes roam the expanse of the cavern, and they alight upon the Autobot you’d slain. Oh yeah. That’s why you decided to play robot doctor—your guilt over having to kill one of them had propelled you into it. Compassion is not a great trait to have in your line of work. 

You ask, “Can you stand?”

He doesn’t even bother to try. “Doubtful. You have stopped the energon loss but I am still far too weak.”

Well, fuck. You’re suddenly angry, pissed off at yourself for even thinking you could help—for _wanting_ to help, pissed at him for being who and what he is. You should have turned around and left the moment you’d realized there were two of them but your greed got in the way, and then your guilt, and then your incredibly fucking misplaced sense of empathy. 

“So what now?” you question, your ire transmitting clearly.

“There is little I can do, human, without the aid of a trained medic. You, however, have the ability to leave. I suggest you use it.”

You probably should. You should leave and walk out of here and head back to the Merge, return to the Mercers empty-handed, which will undoubtedly raise some suspicion. You can’t afford to have them doubting you, not now when you are still so new to the group. Your spoils are yours, but you had agreed to sell them whatever components they needed at a discount. You’d told them you were good at your job and you are, which is why you have to come back with _something._ Your eyes fall upon the Autobot corpse yet again. You’d shied away from carving it earlier because you’d been so rattled by the fact you’d had to pull the trigger, but as you see it now you don’t have much of a choice. 

The Decepticon is watching you again, propped upright with one arm, the other hand resting across the patched wound. You wonder if you can convince him to drag himself out of here, giving you the privacy you need to do what you must. Laughable thought, that. He won’t go anywhere—probably _can’t_ go anywhere. You meet his red eyes and straighten your shoulders in preparation for what you have to say next. 

He preempts you, though, voicing his own question. “Why did you abduct Suture?”

_“I_ didn’t.”

He gestures to the dead Autobot. “He said you were one of those that had.”

“I am. Kind of. The Mercers took him. They’re a—a collective. Traders.” Your explanation is less than informative for good reason, but you can tell by the way one corner of his mouth turns down that he’s able to intuit exactly what you’re not saying. 

“And they managed to subdue an Autobot?” When you say nothing, instead shrugging off your pack to return the plasma torch, he goes on, drawing information from the vast stores of knowledge he (and all other bots) possess about human history, culture, society, language. _“Mercer:_ an individual that deals in expensive garments. A group of them does not sound capable of what you are suggesting.”

As you zip up your pack you feel tension starting to knot itself at the nape of your neck. You’d made a mistake in mentioning the Mercers and he is most assuredly going to unravel that thread. And he does: “Biolight dealers.”

Those two words are as disgusted as you’ve ever heard from his kind. It is a very real struggle to meet his red eyes. “Yes.”

The Mercers chose their name as a play on what it used to mean. Given the hatred for Cybertronians by mankind as a whole, you suppose it’s unsurprising that such a sentiment manifested itself into a fashion statement. Scavenged biolights have become the latest in body modification fads, and it’s a process wherein the malleable, lambent tubing is stitched carefully into human flesh. The end result is in a word striking, though from what you’ve heard, having it done is quite painful. Some of the more innovative risk-taking statement makers have also taken to doing the same with tubing full of energon for that extra glow, though horror stories abound of leaks and subsequent energon poisoning. People refer to the modifications as ‘glowthread’ and for obvious reasons, the entire thing is something the Cybertronians find abhorrent. Truth be told, you do too. 

The Decepticon’s eyes are raking over you so aggressively that you’re surprised you don’t feel pain. “I assume you are adorned beneath that clothing?”

“I am not.” He tilts his head, wearing an expression of false disbelief. You’re rather impressed with yourself, truth be told, because you were pretty sure he already had the lowest of low opinions of you upon learning you were a scavenger. Clearly it’s just dropped another few levels. Not that it matters, right? Your mouth apparently disagrees. “It’s not something I’m into.”

He scoffs. “And yet you work for them?”

“I do what I have to do to survive,” you say flatly. 

“Harvesting our kind.”

You shrug. “The job market isn’t exactly flourishing. I can only do what I’m good at.”

“And how many of us have you harvested?”

Another shrug. You don’t have an answer though if you had to guess, the amount is somewhere close to forty. His hand shoots out, fastening about you so swiftly that all you can manage is a choked gasp before he’s lifted you to his eye level. His voice drops, becoming so low that it rasps. “How many?”

You shake your head, silently cursing your fucking stupidity for becoming this complacent, for thinking that because he’d let you take a plasma torch to his frame it meant he was no longer a threat. He squeezes and you feel it in your ribs and your breath stutters out of you in an excruciated gasp. You pound on his huge unyielding fingers with your fists, which he responds to by squeezing you even harder. Your yelp of pain echoes throughout the cave. 

“How many have _you_ killed?” you bleat when you’re able to breathe again. “How many humans?”

One corner of his mouth arches upward in an unpleasant smile. “Countless. But we do not desecrate after death—”

“Shockwave and Gorefist do!”

His eyes narrow to slits and you become utterly still, certain that you’re about a fraction of a second away from being crushed beyond all hope of recognition. Your heart is laboring so strongly you can feel it in your jaw, are positive that he can feel by way of his tight hold. Gradually his grip loosens, bit by bit, until he opens his hand abruptly. You plummet to the ground, landing hard enough that you grunt, and then you’re scampering away from him in a frenzied, uncoordinated rush. Your rifle is lying on the ground where you’d left it before starting your attempt at surgery and you scoop it up with hands that are steadier than they should be, considering how close you just came to your own demise. Once again your finger is hovering near the trigger but for some infuriating, confusing fucking reason you’re not pulling it. You’re waiting. _What the fuck is wrong with you?_

“Why not make it two in one day?” he goads, gesturing to the dead Autobot. 

Unwise defiance squares your shoulders, tips your chin up. “I don’t need to. You’ll be dead soon enough.”

He makes a deep, rolling sound that you think might be a bitter laugh. “True enough.”

He starts to move. You reach down to grab your pack and then back quickly away as he drags himself over to the nearest wall. That every movement is agonizing is evident even though he doesn’t utter a sound. Eventually he reaches his destination, sagging back against the rock in exhaustion. His eyes are dimmer than they were only a few minutes ago. You’d spoken the truth. He’s not long for this world even with his wound patched. Once again, you find yourself thinking something completely fucking stupid, which is what compels you to voice a query. 

“Can you—are you able to stand?” You’d already asked this once and the look he gives you is a withering one; you try to ignore it. “Could you get out of here?”

“Even if I could, I would not make it far before collapse, and then I would be easy prey for an Autobot or another one of you.” His tone makes it clear he’s not sure which is worse. This bot is an asshole, just like every other fucking one of his kind, and you are suddenly infuriated at yourself for the bevy of bad decisions you’ve made since finding that energon trail aboveground. You’re roused from your self-recrimination when he speaks again. “Why not kill me?”

Once again, your mouth decides to do its own thing without consulting your brain. “I don’t know.”

“You do.”

In the span of the last hour, this Decepticon has learned far too much about you. Some of it you admitted; the rest he discerned. He’ll be dead soon and if you were in your right mind you’d just leave this place, go above, and wait him out before returning and carving what you could. You’d go back to the Merge, show off the proof of your claim, hire some other carrion crawlers to come back with you for a percentage of the overall haul. That’s what you would do if you were in your right mind—

“What is your designation?”

“…what?”

He makes an impatient sound. “What are you called?”

_Does it fucking matter?_ “Skinbag,” you say, opting for snark now that you’ve got your rifle and he’s on the verge of losing consciousness, “human, weakling, deserter, traitor, coward, crawler—”

“Crawler?”

“Carrion crawler.”

“Fitting.”

You make an ambiguous side to side movement with your head, neither yes nor no. “Very well, _Crawler,”_ he says, and smiles to see your immediate scowl, “Tell me why you refuse to kill me.”

“Maybe I want to watch you suffer.”

That deep noise again, an almost-laugh. “I do not believe you to be that cruel.”

“You know shit and nothing about me.”

“I know that before today, you have never killed one of my kind. I know that you were terrified while doing so. I know that you were unable to harvest the fallen Autobot for reasons I think you are unwilling to admit to yourself. I know that you bear a weapon more than capable of ending my life and that you have had the opportunity to do so numerous times—and yet you have not, not even when I provoked you.”

Okay, so he knows a bit more than you’d realized and far more than you’re comfortable with. You focus on the last part. “You provoked me... you wanted me to shoot you?”

“A better fate than to be found by an Autobot patrol or to have my corpse scavenged by another human.”

“I could wait you out,” you say, wondering the wisdom in doing so, "and when you’re gone I could take whatever I wanted.”

“You could,” he agrees, “but I do not think you will.”

You stare at him, brows drawn, disturbed by just how much insight he’s gleaned in such a short time. He meets your look without expression, leaning his head back against the wall. It doesn’t escape your notice that his eyes have dimmed even further. The silence that falls between you both is a heavy one and you spend the duration of it furiously thinking, discarding ideas and sifting through new ones, wondering why the fuck his survival matters to you. The answer deserves a lot more time than the few harried moments you can spare at the moment, so you bookmark it for a later date. 

Finally you say, “You said you need a medic.”

“Yes.” And then, mockingly: “Have you one?”

Your reply is a wordless tilt of the head. He frowns, shaking his head, and then his eyes widen slightly. “You are not suggesting…”

“He’s not far from here.”

“He is, I assume, heavily sedated and restrained.”

You nod.

“Your… _clan_… will have him under supervision.”

Another nod.

“And you intend to free him on your own?”

His incredulity comes through loud and clear and to be honest, it’s also echoing in your head. This idea is so fucking ludicrous it would be laughable if not for the fact that you think you might be able to do it. You’ve a plan hatching, an admittedly sketchy one but it’s steadily gaining shape. 

The Decepticon says, “Suture will kill you if you succeed in freeing him.”

And that’s when it all crystallizes—that’s when you know how to accomplish what will be insanity personified. You feel a deep stirring within you, filaments of excitement unfurling. _If_ you can do this you’ll get something you’ve wanted for a very long time. It will be more than worth it. The Decepticon has leaned forward, is studying you intently, intuiting somehow that you’ve just solved a problem, attempting to fathom just how you’ve done so.

Belatedly you say, “He can try.”

“And once freed, you expect him to follow you here to administer care to a sworn enemy?”

“No. But he’ll have no choice.”

“Human,” he says, half in warning, half in inquiry, “what exactly are you planning to do?”

You’ve got nothing to lose in telling him, so you do.

**.x.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Lisa for hearing out all my ideas for this fic, and thanks everyone for reading!
> 
> I'm borrowing a bit from Fallout with the [Minutemen](https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/Commonwealth_Minutemen), [the Institute](https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/The_Institute), and the [Brotherhood of Steel](https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/Brotherhood_of_Steel).


	3. Jailbreak

  
“You are either very brave or very foolish for a human,” the Decepticon says once you’ve outlined your plan. “I think foolish.”

“You’re not wrong.”

He makes a sound of dubious agreement, leaning back again while giving you a considering eye. _“If_ you succeed…” but he doesn’t finish, probably because he knows just how big an ‘if’ that really is. You’re not going to argue. 

He watches as you begin the first part of your plan, which entails quickly carving out some choice parts from the dead Autobot by light of your gun’s flashlight attachment. You do so with tension singing along every nerve you have, aware of just how strongly the Decepticon feels about what you do. You keep reminding yourself that you know exactly what he’s experiencing, because you felt it the first time you saw the poor, pathetic, sad creatures that are the Decepticon drudgers. Shockwave and his scientists believe in recycling certain kinds of waste, a category in which their deceased human test subjects fall into. The drudgers are what you consider a walking form of hell, so every time you catch a glimpse of the Decepticon’s displeased expression while you work, you remind yourself that atrocities are committed on all three sides of this war. 

When you decide you’ve got enough you are nearly elbow deep in the Autobot’s chest, covered in energon from fingertip to shoulders. The bot had been in rough shape when you’d killed him, leaking internally, but you’re not after the mother lode right now. By the time you slide off his chassis to the ground below you’ve amassed a small spool of energon tubing (clamped to prevent leaking), the remaining intact optic, and the T-cog, though you suspect it’s damaged (you can’t tell without taking it apart). You also managed to hastily and cleanly remove two vocalization circuits, which are nice additions. You survey your haul while you wipe at the energon painting your arms with a rag you carry in your pack especially for this reason. As far as scavenging goes it’s not much and you can carry a lot more just on your own but you’re running low on time—or rather, the Decepticon is running low on time. The red of his eyes has faded so that it’s just a faint shine. Still, he watches wordlessly as you can begin wrapping your carves is dingy foam sheets, reused for the hundredth time over. Once everything is secured in your pack you slide your arms through the straps and stand, grunting a little at the weight, snapping together the front harness. You pick up your rifle again and now it’s time. You’re ready to leave. 

The Decepticon says, “Will your spoils be enough to convince them?” 

Ignoring the harshness of his tone, you nod with a confidence you don’t really feel. You start walking, determinedly striding past him toward the tunnel you’d entered from. His voice arrests you. “Why do you do this?”

It’s a moment before you respond, trying as you are to find a less self-insulting way to say _because I’m stupid._ “Faulty human reasoning,” is what you settle on, half-turning to look at him as you respond.

You think there might be a ghost of a humorless smile arcing his mouth but you can’t tell for sure, being as he’s shrouded now in darkness. “I’ll be quick,” you say, more of a way to bolster assurance in yourself than to reassure him.

“I am certain you will attempt to be.” He lifts a hand, waves you toward the tunnel. “Go. I hope for both our continued existences that you succeed.”

It kind of sounds like he means it, which surprises you given his blatant abhorrence for both you and your species, but you suppose the looming promise of death might have changed his perspective just a bit. You leave without fanfare, your steps quick and determined and more than a little apprehensive, but you’re on the path now. As scared as you are—and you _are_—you’re also beset by what is undoubtedly a foolish anticipation. No risk, no reward, as the old saying goes, and there is definite reward awaiting you—in fact, that reward is how you’re going to pull of the last half of this stunt. 

_If_ you can get that far.

**.x.**

The Merge was once the site of a potable water treatment plant. It still is, technically, which is why it’s become a small urban hub in the middle of nowhere. The town it used to provide water to is just a ruined wasteland, having had this misfortune of being a military theatre in this shitty war nearly a decade ago. The plant sits on the banks of a large river that feeds directly into a small lake, which is also connected to two more inflow rivers as well as an outflow, hence it’s name: the Merge. It’s a scenic spot, truth be told, the lake surrounded on all sides but one by thick coniferous forest. Where nature ends, civilization begins and it’s markedly less pleasing to the eye, a shanty town hastily built to provide shelter to those looking for safe haven from the war, as well as those who intending to profit off of it. The Mercers run the Merge, having seized control of the still functioning plant and thus, having a monopoly on potable water. Their headquarters resemble a military compound—they were able to afford such fortifications and as such, their base wraps around the treatment plant itself, ending at the river’s banks. The rest of the Merge sprawls outward from that point, the buildings becoming more and more dilapidated the further they are from the plant. There’s a steady, reliable stream of foot traffic in and out of the Merge on a daily basis, given that it also functions as a trading post. Vehicular traffic is rarer given that fuel is hard to come by, but still not all that unusual. As for attention from the invading/defending Cybertronians, it doesn’t gain much, being out of the way as it is. In the event bots decide to start poking around they are usually deterred by the bevy of coilgun turrets situated around the town’s perimeter. If they’re not deterred, then they’re greeted with the main defensive guard of the Merge, which equals about twenty individuals outfitted in power armor with gauss rifles. While their power armor is of poorer quality compared to that of the Brotherhood of Steel, it’s still more than enough to even the footing against a few wandering bots. Against an army, well, that would be a different matter entirely, and one you hope you are never around to see. 

You approach the Merge now from high up in the hills, following a game trail through a swath of birch trees. The trees thin out about a half mile from the Merge, and it takes you not long at all to get to the main road. You’re not alone—there are a couple of people in front of you and you meet another on his way out, a thin mustached man riding a bicycle pulling a cart full of goods who gives you a salute and a small smile as he passes. Entrance to the Merge requires interaction with the guards at the main gate, usually just a quick series of questions regarding your purpose and point of origin. You’re waved through without incident owing to your identification: the red band circling your thigh. You make your way through rough streets littered with puddles and ruts owing to an excess of rain, passing by houses cobbled together out of scrap wood, metal, and tarp. Entrance to the Mercer’ HQ is again guarded, and this time you slow down to slide your pack off your shoulders, open it up, and show the sentries what’s inside. Eyebrows hooking upward in approval, they wave you through. 

The compound consists of three rectangular buildings connected via corridors, and one large circular outbuilding. The outbuilding is large enough to accommodate a Cybertronian or two, and is in fact where Sawbones is being held. You don’t glance that way as you make your way across the uneven ground of the yard, instead making a beeline for what acts as the main office. The door above opens as you mount the stairs and a blonde, bearded man steps out, tall and broad through the shoulders.

“_______,” he greets. 

“Traeger,” you say in kind. 

He holds he door open for you, following you as you step inside. “You weren’t out long.”

“Didn’t have to go far,” you say. The room inside is square, with one half devoted to being a control center and the other a haphazard arrangement of tables and chairs. There’s another man inside, shorter and thinner than Traeger, dark-haired and dark-eyed, dressed all in gray save for his combat boots. He’s sitting at one table, pencil in hand and maps laid out before him. You nod at him. “Lawson.”

Traeger and Lawson make up one half of the Mercers leadership. The other two, Hepzibah and Wendell, are currently away from the Merge, which plays in your favor right now. There’s an empty table beside Lawson and it’s there you set down your pack, unzip it, and start pulling out your spoils. Lawson turns in his chair to watch while Traeger comes to stand beside you. 

“That all?” Lawson queries, but you’d seen the way his eyes had lingered on the vocalization circuits. 

“No. There were seven bodies. Meant to carve a lot more but I had to run. Raiders.”

Traeger blows a slow breath out of his nostrils. “Motherfuckers can’t take a hint,” he mutters. Raider clans are prolific, vicious, and pestilent. They’re also bad news for a trading town. 

Lawson asks, “How many of ‘em?”

“At least fifteen.”

“Power armor?”

“A couple. Busted up T-45s.”

The men exchange glances before looking back at your haul. “The bots in good shape?” Lawson inquires.

“Most of them had clean wounds. A couple were a bit more damaged.”

There’s a short silence. Lawson leans forward in his chair, picks up the optic and lifts it for inspection. He’s looking for signs of a messy extraction, you know, and feel a swell of pride. You’re shitty at a lot of things, but carving mechs is not one of them. 

“How far away?” Traeger queries.

“Less than four miles. If we take the carriers we can be there in under an hour.”

The carriers are military transports, designed to haul groups of soldiers outfitted in power armor. The Mercers acquired several of these through means you assume are less than legal, not that law holds much weight anymore. There’s more silence as Lawson leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, as Traeger flicks through the bundle of clamped energon tubing, counting under his breath as he does so. As you wait for them to reach a decision you feel tension settle in your shoulders and down your back, manifesting as a sharp ache. All they have to do is say no and this whole entire (probably bad) idea goes down in flames. 

“This’d put us in a very good place,” Lawson says finally. Traeger’s agreement is an affirmative sounding grunt. Lawson’s eyes find you. “You can get us back there?”

You hope that your nod isn’t too enthusiastic. “It’s not hard to find.”

“Time to gear up, then.” Lawson pushes himself out of his chair and makes his way to the control center, where he uses the intercom to address the compound, calling for those available to get assembled. Traeger puts down the tubing, touches you on the shoulder, and beckons you to follow. You head out of the office and into a hall on the left. You feel your anxiety ramp up a notch, because you know where he’s taking you: the armory, where all their guns, ammunition, and tactical gear are stored. 

It’s also where they store their power armor.

**.x.**

You’ve amassed something of an armory yourself over the years. When you were just a carrion crawler for the army, you weren’t allowed to keep much. Once you turned traitor and went independent, though, you could keep whatever the fuck you wanted. So you’d hold onto the odd bit you thought might be useful as you scoured battlegrounds in the aftermath, things like grenades, stimpaks, mines, small guns that most hardened veterans of the wasteland would laugh at, as well as a sundry of drugs that are popular to abuse nowadays. You’ve got injectors full of Jet, Daytripper, X-cell, Overdrive, and Psycho. Most of this shit is stored away in your own little private bunker that’s well off the grid, but you carry some of it around with you always, contained in your pack’s false bottom. You’re cautious. You’re a planner. As it’s said, it’s better to have it and need it than to need it and not have it. Before entering the Merge you’d stowed some choice items within the interior pockets of your CQB vest and as you follow Traeger you finger the outline of one such item, attempting to steel yourself for what’s about to come. 

The wounded Decepticon had been astute in his observations, correctly deducing that you had never killed a bot before. He’d never asked about whether you’d killed your own kind, and if he had the answer would have been an affirmative. You’re not proud of it. It haunts you sometimes. You don’t lead a life privileged enough to escape the ravages of this war-torn reality, and you’ve had to kill your own simply to stay alive. You’ve taken six human lives, four of them hostile rival scavengers and the other two members of the TLF’s enforcement, sent to drag your deserter ass back for punishment. So, you know that if it comes to it, you can do what needs to be done. You’ve done it before. You really don’t want to and you’re going to try to avoid it, but killing may be the only way you’re going to get what you want. 

“Got some kevlar in your size,” Traeger says, stopping at the fortified door of the armory and punching in the code on the keypad. He eyes you appraisingly for a moment. “Vests only, though. Everything else might too be big.”

You give him a small smile, roll your shoulders in a shrug. The door slides open and he steps through. You follow, pulling an injector from your pocket and palming it. 

The interior of the armory is cold and dark, but banks of overhead lights flick on the moment you both cross the threshold. Racks of weapons line the walls, while shelves of ammunition and grenades take up the entirety of the rear of the room. Body armor and helmets hang from racks along the other wall, and to your immediate right is a huge door locked by another keypad. You’d been in here a couple times before to refill the cartridges for your rifle, but it had taken nearly four months of associating with the Mercers to earn that right. 

“Take a look, grab what you need,” Traeger says, waving an arm. You’re surprised; normally they keep a close eye to ensure you don’t take things they feel you aren’t entitled to. Apparently you’ve impressed them a great deal with your story about the several dead bots and raiders. Unfortunate that it’s a lie. You wander in the direction of the body armor, watching Traeger out of the corner of your eye as he approaches the power armor vault, as he enters the code. You alter your course slowly, circling around behind him as the keypad beeps its approval. He’s humming tunelessly as the door swings open.

What follows is astonishingly easy—luck must be on your side. Traeger, with the injector protruding from his neck, spins around to stare at you with bulging eyes as a nearly lethal dose of Overdrive floods through him. He staggers toward you, then past you as you quickly turn aside. He hits the floor face down, hands scrabbling loudly at the metal grating, and then he starts to twitch. You turn away because he’s harmless now, and make your way to the armory’s inner sanctum. You’ve only caught glimpses of the interior before, closely guarded as its treasures are. As you step through your breath escapes you in an appreciative whistle. Power armor is arranged three deep on all three sides, separated by types: the oldest make, the T-45s, followed by the T-51s and the T-60s. No X-01s or Hellfire armor, which isn’t surprising due to how prized they are, but still—there are about twenty suits here, even if they are older models. You shut your mouth hastily, aware that you’re gawking, but power armor is something you’ve been working toward for a long while and now you’re surrounded by it. You don’t have much time. The group that Lawson assembles will arrive soon to gear up, and with that thought in mind you erupt into a flurry of movement.

You can’t run a suit without a fusion core, and as you suspected they are locked up tight. If you had the time you’d force the container open but you don’t, so instead you start checking the backs of the suits. You’re in luck—they don’t remove the cores after use, and even better, there’s a white T-60 that looks practically new with the core in place. You punch the air in excitement, feeling an absurd surge of glee—not only are you getting a free suit, you’re getting a fucking decent one. You tamp down your elation with a shake of your head. Business first, revelry later. 

Getting in power armor requires opening the back hatch so that it swings upward, granting you access to climb in and slide into place. The hatch closes behind you and then you’re safely ensconced within, your strength and durability enhanced by an incredible factor. The green HUD provides you with all relevant information, but your eyes drop to the readout for the fusion core’s energy levels. Seventy-four percent. Better than you’d hoped. You’d had to make adjustments in order to be able to carry your pack and it’s now tied firmly to the suit’s right thigh. Your hands in the armor are able to grip the gauss rifle with ease and as you swing around to face the door your marvel at how easy and natural the movement feels. This is not your first time in power armor—once, during your days in the army, you’d been assigned transport duty, walking a platoon of suits to the front lines because there were no carriers available. Those sixteen hours you’d spent in a TLF T-45 had cemented for you just how imperative it was to obtain a suit of your own. And now, many years later, here you are, unwisely stealing one of them from a large and well-organized group with considerable local presence. Even though the first part of your plan is done, there’s still a very good chance you’ll fail, so now it’s time for the next step. 

Once you’re back out into the main part of the armory you shut the door behind you and then demolish the lock’s keypad with several blows from one armored fist. There’s no quick way of getting back in as it automatically locked behind you, so you’ve hopefully just tilted the odds heavily in your favor. You exit the armory, destroying that keypad too, and then you stride down the hallway toward the office, rifle held at the ready. Lawson’s in there with a man and a woman, the beginnings of the salvage team.

“The fuck?” Lawson says, scowling as your heavily armored steps echo throughout the room. “Traeger?”

You say nothing.

**.x.**

The Mercers are ordinary people, living lives of dubious morality and lessened consequence due to the ongoing war. They are ordinary people and you have just attacked some of them, tossing them aside with your borrowed strength, leaving them strewn unconscious across the floor. You will likely have to kill more than one before all of this is over. You expected to feel shitty about all of this and you do, but you’re also beset with an odd resolve you’ve never experienced before, not even when you opted to turn traitor. It’s not hard to make your way to the outbuilding—as you’d known, there’s not a lot that unarmored individuals can do against a suit of power armor. The sensation of being shot while in the suit is faint, mildly disconcerting, and you’re sort of pissed that the clean white paint job is going to be marred. Such ludicrous thoughts you’re having, and you contribute them to the fact that you’re running on an adrenaline high. You need to ground yourself. You’re not invulnerable, fortified though you are. Energy weapons can do some damage but fortunately for you, all of those are still locked in the armory. 

You’ve taken out five Mercers by the time you reach the outbuilding. No deaths yet, surprisingly, welcomely. You lack the code for the door but you do possess a mine with a remote trigger that had been riding in your pack’s false bottom full of Nifty Things. It’s a simple matter to attach it, stride backward, and detonate. The door crumples in a burst of black smoke and flame, and a simple shove from you sends it flying off its hinges. There’s another point of entry in the form of a huge industrial door on the backside, which is how they managed to get Sawbones in here, but this is the quickest route. As for getting out, well…

The outbuilding is only one room, huge, cavernous, akin to a hangar. As soon as you enter you’re greeted with the sight of the captive Autobot medic. Sawbones is conscious, which is good in the broader scope of your plan. However, as those blue eyes focus upon you you find yourself wishing he was offline. He is an oddity among his kind, or at least among the number you have encountered. His build, accompanied by a color scheme that is simply shades of white and gray, provides a distinct and unnerving skeletal appearance. As he is now, bolted to the wall by the neck, arms, and legs, he appears deceptively gaunt, almost dessicated. It’s not possible, of course—such is the nature of the living metal they are made from that they do not alter in size the way humans do. Still, Sawbones is one of the most physically disturbing Cybertronians you have ever seen, intimidating on a level different from those that possess brawn and bulk. His reputation makes him even more so—a medic, yes, but one that has very little regard for inconvenient things such as morality. After the Autobot Primes had changed their stance on just what constituted an unacceptable amount of human collateral, Sawbones became something of a nightmare for the human side of the war. All three factions have their monsters, and you’re staring at one of them right now.

There’s a silence as he studies you, not that he can discern much, hidden within the armor as you are. Finally he stirs, chin tipping up as he rests his head against the wall. “Human.” he greets finally. His voice is sepulchral, sounding as though it originates from some deep, yawning chasm within the earth. It raises the hair on your arms to hear it. You wait for him to ask the obvious questions, but he says nothing further. He merely watches you with that flat, terrible gaze.

“I’m here to get you out,” you say finally. Amplified as your voice is through the armor’s modulator, it still to your own ears sounds thin. 

“Are you.” It’s not a question. 

You’re flustered by his mere presence, by your own goddamn unpreparedness. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about how this particular encounter would go down. All you can do is nod.

“And why would that be?” 

“I need your help.”

One of his brow plates quirks upward. Like the rest of him, his face is narrow and angular, making every expression seem sharper, crueler. “And _why_ would a skinbag need _my_ help?” Before you can answer, he issues an order. “Get out of the armor.”

You do so after a brief hesitation. He is still restrained, incapable of moving much—not a threat, except that some primal, wild part of you is certain that he very much is. You activate the hatch so that it swings open and you pull yourself out slowly, clumsily, your unfamiliarity transmitting clearly through your movements. When both feet are flat on the concrete you come around the side and stand before him as you are: fleshy, fragile, human. Sawbones studies you intently and it takes every ounce of willpower you have to stare directly at him, to keep from fidgeting.

He says finally, “You were not with them.”

You shake your head.

“That is in your favor,” he remarks in an almost casual tone, “because I will kill them all.”

“Some of them are already dead,” you lie, because even though you’ve instigated all of this you would really like to keep the casualties to a minimum. 

“You?” When you nod, he makes a contemplative hum. “You have deprived me, but I may forgive the transgression… _if_ you free me.”

You take a deep breath, eyes flitting over him to make sure the situation is what you thought it was, that you haven’t made a monumental error. As you’d predicted, he’s wearing a ‘gutter’, a device of human design that is essentially a far more brutal version of a shock collar. It is attached directly over the spark chamber and is capable of interfering with the inflow and outflow of energon to a spark despite the protective casing known as the laser core. It can debilitate a bot. It can also kill them. The gutter can only be removed remotely—any attempts to physically remove it by the wearer result in death. Though you weren’t with the group that captured Sawbones, you’ve heard about it multiple times from multiple sources. They’d managed to catch him in the aftermath of a bot skirmish, but he hadn’t gone down easily. Out of a group of two dozen, eight hadn’t returned. It was a lot of effort and loss for what amounted to one bot, but Sawbones had something very rare, very unusual, and as you think that thought your eyes skim along the slope of his shoulders and the length of his thighs.

“Striking, aren’t they?” 

He’s smiling when your eyes snap back to him, a dark, curving gash contrasted against the white of his face. He moves as best he can in his restraints to give you a better look at the pure white biolights adorning him. He says, “It is for these I was brought here, yes?”

You nod again, wishing you didn’t have to. His ghastly smile grows. “And why else?”

“Energon,” is your quiet answer, even though you’re certain he’s already aware of the reasons. 

“So, the humans know about the regeneration, do they?” He tilts his head back in a caricature of contemplation before shrugging as much as his bonds will allow. “Surprising. Your insurgency’s intelligence efforts tend to run on the less effective side.”

“We aren’t insurgents.”

Another muted shrug. “I cannot be bothered to attempt to tell the difference.”

Your fear of him is now joined by irritation. You know damn well he can tell the difference. He’s baiting you and you’re not going to rise to it. Instead, you harden your voice and speak. “I’ll release you if you agree to help me.”

“And if I do not?”

“You stay here and they harvest your biolights and use you as a battery to power this place for the rest of your considerable life span.”

“Not ideal.” He makes a show of thinking. “Very well, human. Release me and I will do your bidding.”

The way he says it raises the flesh on your arms. Freeing him is like letting a rabid dog loose. You know this. Your other option is to take the power armor and get the fuck out of here, as far away as the fusion core allows, forgetting about the wounded Decepticon and going to ground. But you’re not going to do that, because you’ve already come this far—and, if you’re being honest, because a part of you is _alive_ in a way it has never been before. This alarms you, because thrill-seeking has never really been your thing before, and in this day and age it’s a good way to end up dead. 

The time has come to do what needs to be done, because the clusterfuck outside is only going to remain outside for so long. “The controls to your gutter can be accessed through my suit,” you tell him. “Once we’re out of here and you’ve helped me, I’ll detach it.”

“And I am to rely upon _your_ word?”

“It’s the only one you’re going to get, bot.”

He huffs a laugh at your ill-advised sass. “I suppose you are correct. Very well, human. If you fail to rid me of this device once our deal is done, rest assured that I _will_ find a way to kill you. Creatively.”

You believe him as much as you have ever believed anyone. You nod once more, your mouth suddenly dry, and circle around the power armor. The suit stands empty but upright, the gauss rifle gripped in one hand. Once you are again sealed within, you move across the room to the control panel and don’t let yourself hesitate as you push all the sliders to green and swiftly turn around. One by one all the massive restraints snap open, and you find yourself backing up as the Autobot medic steps away from the wall. 

You can activate the gutter within the blink of an eye, you silently remind yourself, holding your breath as he looks down at you. You’re gripping the rifle in both hands now and as the seconds tick by, your hold tightens imperceptibly. Finally he speaks. “Allow me to open a path.”

His blasters rise from his outer forearms and he takes aim, firing at the wall above the door you’d entered from. Reinforced though it is, the structure gives way beneath the firepower, and he finishes his task with several well-placed kicks. Sunlight streams in, illuminating him like some unearthly, celestial creature, an image that will remain seared into your brain because of how contradictory it is. Shouts of alarm rise up from outside. Your time is up. 

“Shall we?” Sawbones sweeps one arm forward in a gesture of mock courteousness. You take a deep breath, raise the rifle, and approach. As he steps out into the yard, you follow. 

**.x. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fallout and Transformers are two of my favorite fandoms, so this has been a fucking blast to write. Now if only I could figure out how to cram some Gundam into the mix.
> 
> (For those curious, [this is what T-60 power armor looks like.](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/fallout/images/c/c5/FO4_T-60_Power_Armor.png/revision/latest?cb=20200504222159))
> 
> Thank you as always for reading and reviewing!


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